Born to Die
by mama-germany
Summary: They exist to create and to kill and to be reborn again, but Miss Notebook decides she's a little bored with that and hopes to spend her day with Mister Clock a little differently. DHMIS Padlock one-shot


They had only one beginning and one end.

They began in the earliest heartbeats of the universe. He was Time, the forger and architect of paths for everything that ever was and could be. She was Manifest, the dreamer, the creator of everything that ever was and could be. From the beginning of everything, they set out to lay paths and breathe existence into life. Separate, they were all that was beauty and life.

Together, they were death.

They were always destined to do battle. Her empire of creation would always outnumber his, yet her creations would always crumble at his feet. The two are like magnets. They poled each other, yet they always drew back together again, to fight. The fighting was spectacular. They fought anywhere and everywhere, anywhere in her realms of creation and in his plane of time. They fought to the sweet, sweet death, either one or the other would fall and paint the empty realms around them red with their spilt blood. Their endless days consisted of no restraint. Their cycle only consisted of awaking, healed and reborn on opposite sides of the cosmos, searching for each other amongst their work of laying paths and painting worlds, finding each other and sparring, ending with the solitude of death by the hand of the other.

When they clashed, they might cause the wilt of a flower or the supernova of a dying star.

He could be seen as a timepiece, a clock. As he was man, he had the handsome face of a god, and the contrasting skin of sunlit gold and deep blue of something alien. He was known by many names; Clock, Father Time, Mister Time, sometimes as Tony. He chose that of his own amusement.

She was a blank pad of paper, an empty slate. As she was woman, her face was stark, black and white, as white as her dress and black as her skin, her voice dull. But her white face was framed with a soft rainbow crown of hair, her eyes and smile were bright, and her voice could be one of angels. She might be referred to as Manifest, or Notebook. She had no name.

Their unique days melted into the next, one after another with their routine. They knew of nothing else but to awake, create, fight, die by the hands and dark eyes of the other.

Until one day it was time to get a little more creative.

"Mister Time! Mister Time! Ready or not, here I come!"

Notebook twisted along the fresh path of time, her eyes bright, searching. Clock was here somewhere. This path was brand new. She could almost smell his blood. She brandished her sword, her pencil with the bite of a diamond, out from her side. "Come on out you, who're you hiding from?"

He was high above her, lying in wait for her. She had found him first today, it seemed. Sometimes it was her, finding his fresh tracks of time, sometimes it was him, stumbling upon her newest galaxies, still broiling hot with radiation and stardust. She might have become aware of his close proximity first, but she still couldn't see him, and he still could cast the first blow. He tensed, readying his staff, the black wrought iron clock hand that could cut time itself. There she was, far below him, dancing in the dark. He grinned, his sharp teeth glistening in the faraway light of some dim foreign star, and sprang.

A harsh screech came from their meeting blades. It seemed his opponent was waiting for him. But his smile didn't leave his face, nor did her smile vacate hers. It was all part of the fun. It would be too boring if one died so easily.

Their blades parted and they landed neatly away from each other. In the heartbeats between clashes, they always watched each other. They were both cultivators and appreciators of beauty, after all. She could appreciate everything about him, and him her, their bodies and their colors, and imagine all the marvelous things they could paint with the red of the other's blood.

"You'll have to be faster than that next time," she teased. She loved playing on his name.

"I was distracted by your beauty sublime."

Her cheeks flushed lavender with pleasure. "Oh dear Clock, you flatter me."

"Of course Miss Notebook, you're a sight to see." He offered her the most sincere smile, like they were friends. They were sort of friends, right? They had no one else. Yes, they could consider each other friends. Friends that loved to slay each other. So were the little oddities of friendship. He tossed his staff from hand to hand, slowly closing his distance from her as he circled around her, like a planet around their star. "So, Miss Notebook, how would you like to die today? By the heart, by the head, the neck, some other way?"

She giggled. She had already died last time, and hence he had lived to this time. It wasn't her proper turn to die today, oh no. "Oh Mister Time, do you think that's so? Why, you've never won more than twice in a row!" And she charged at him, swiping her pencil at his flank.

He sidestepped her attack and swung his staff at her back. She avoided the swing easily, neatly backflipping over the clock hand. She landed a little below him a meter way, swirling around and struck again, aiming her pencil at his leg, maybe to land a glancing blow and claw him down. To no avail, he merely sidestepped again. Oh well.

"Mister Clock, I was thinking today," she started amidst their clashing weapons and their near landing blows, "Sometimes I get to be bored."

He casually raised an eyebrow. He rarely knew her to express boredom. She was personified creativity beyond anything one single person could fathom. How could the matriarch of creation possibly be bored? "I've never known you to feel such a thing, my dear, do our duels no longer strike a chord?"

"Of course not, no, I'd never tire of you," she told him sweetly. How could she ever tire of him, the most perfect being, the only one she hadn't the privilege of creating? "I only thought maybe you'd like a change of view."

Him? What out here could have made her think of him and his enjoyment? Now he was curious. "I can't imagine what you mean, Miss Notebook. However, for your sake, I suppose I'd take a look. What do you have in mind?"

"I'll show you, now come, don't linger behind." She held out her hand, inviting, beckoning. She kept it out of his reach, lest he try to cut it off. She needed that.

"What could you possibly show me, my dear?" he asked, trailing behind at a safe distance. They would certainly try to stab the other even now, and he wasn't going to let this turn of events be his distraction and downfall today.

"Don't be so impatient Mister Time, we're already so near." She pouted and shook her head of rainbow waves, almost scolding him at his impatience. For Time, he certainly liked to get his answers promptly.

She led him away from their days battleground, far away. They went further than they had ever gone together, back to her center of the universe. They were out so far, surrounded by nothing but blackness, barely touched by the light of stars billions of miles away. Clock didn't know what to do. There was nothing out here. What had Notebook wanted him to see out here? "Miss Notebook, please, I implore, tell me what I'm out here for?"

She shook her head again in disapproval, tsking. "Mister Time, you cannot see, till you begin to think creatively!" She continued to beckon him, waving her pencil. Her pencil. He mostly saw her pencil as a weapon, just as she saw his clock hand. True, they often impaled each other on them. But they rarely got to see the true purpose of the other.

Her face softened. "Why do you think I bought you out here, to this blank canvas?" she asked him, sincerely, gently. She shifted her pencil around in her hand, no longer wielded like a knife, but rather as a paintbrush.

He began to understand. "Are you to paint this blackness?"

She nodded, and turned her back to him.

She had never turned her back to him before, because she would undoubtedly be stabbed. What made her think she could trust him now?

She began to paint.

He had never seen her create before. The colors that came forth from her pencil were not the expected dull charcoals that sometimes marred his skin, just avoiding breaking into blood. These weren't broken greys. These were streams of light that she was bending to her will, pastels and neons, and metallic and everything one could imagine. All different shades of the rainbow, mingling in lines of calligraphy. She started to run, swirling the colors together, smearing, blending, weaving in and out. Her face shone and her dress was splattered with color.

Before they knew it, she had painted a nursery of stars.

It was massive. Translucent pillars of stardust rose up for millions of miles in all shades of pink and orange and blue. At their cores were spots of white light and searing heat, from the creation of new stars. Each and every particle of dust was painted with love.

It was awe inspiring, it was beautiful, and it was life.

Even Time was stunned with the beauty of her creation. Watching life being brought into an empty space is a meaningful thing. He was even more stunned with the beauty of Notebook. Her face glowed, her smile shined, her eyes sparkled with the happiness of creation.

She was absolutely perfect.

She turned back to him, her smile such a pure manifestation of happiness. He had never seen her so happy. Not during their banter or their fighting or when she gained the upper hand and slayed him. Her happiness was just so… clear.

"So, Mister Time, did you enjoy the show?"

"It's beautiful, my dear."

"It sets my heart aglow."

Time smiled at her. His contentment at seeing her like this couldn't even begin to touch her own happiness, but he sort of hoped to learn. "Your work is beautiful, Miss Notebook. I could never begin to try such an activity."

Her smile deepened, that beautiful purity fading away. It was replaced by something darker, something not as kind, but much more familiar and a feeling Time enjoyed seeing on her almost as much. Mischief. "Never say never, Mister Clock. You just need a little… creativity."

He chuckled and shook his head softly. Her again with the creativity. But it just wasn't in his nature to create the same way she could. It was just the order of things. He stepped back, swinging his staff from side to side. He looked up at her, and saw her stance, just a little more defensive, watching him carefully, noting the position of his weapon. He could guess what she was thinking. Her little show was over, she was thinking he wanted to get back down to business. It was like he said, there was a time and a place for mucking around. But this, this didn't feel like mucking around to him. This felt… right. He offered her a self-assured grin. "No, Miss Clock, that's only for you. It's nice, but I prefer what _**I**_ can do."

He raised his staff, but for the first time in her presence, it wasn't to attack. He struck it down into where he was standing, which was nothing at all. Nothing but blackness. They stood on invisible and permeable nothingness. Yet, he struck down and the nothingness cracked, the blade sticking out of the cracks like a pillar impaled into cement.

Something shook. There was nothing but empty space beneath their feet, yet something trembled deep beneath them both. Notebook had to take a step back from him, bracing herself, but Clock was ready. From the cracks in space his staff had forged, dim hints of light glowed through, a little blue, a little red, a little gold. The light began to escape their cracks and join and spread out, knitting together with one another and laying out a path in front of him. The lights wound themselves in a path of squares, outlining pure black tiles. More and more tiles were outlined and shot forward, paving themselves, further and further away until they were lost in the darkness of whatever passed for a horizon.

These were the paths he created. These were the paths of color. He stepped onto it and the tiles rippled in tiny green waves, melting away into the night. Clock pulled his staff out of the space and tapped the path. Good and sturdy. He turned to Notepad with the most charming smile he had. "Come, Miss Notepad," he invited, offering his hand to her, "take a tour with me. Time goes much further than the eye can see."

She wondered why she felt…. nervous. Trembly. Excited. Notebook was never nervous, so feeling this squirming sensation deep in her made no sense, especially at the first moment that he had not tried to neatly cut her head from her shoulders and contribute another layer of red to the fabric of her lovely dress collar. But she would also never be less adventurous than him, and she fixed her face with a smile and simultaneously stepped onto the path and took his hand.

It was as if his staff had struck the ground again, a similar deep rumbling was felt. But space and time didn't move. Only they felt it in their bodies the moment their hands touched. Neither had ever touched the other in such a… gentle fashion. They actually felt each other's skin, the softness, the texture, whose was warm and whose was cold. Neither had ever noticed before. It was difficult to appreciate the feeling of someone's skin when you were mostly occupied with ripping it from their still living body.

His eyes flickered to her hand, curious. Interesting. He wrapped his hand around her slender one and led her along his path. This path, it was probably for the nebula she just created. An entire nebula, it could go on for billions of years. He looked down at some of the columns of tiles in the path. Not all of these would extend all the way. Many of the stars of these columns would die and be replaced. It was life. She created it and he extended it.

She followed his gaze to their hands, to his face, to the tiles. She looked at the glowing colors and scowled. "Green is not a creative color!" she hissed. Not terribly long ago, she had made a planet. She had made a planet and could never decide on its color. First she used red and black, then orange and grey, then white, lots of white, and eventually settled on green and blue. She had covered so much of that planet with green, so many living green things in one place, she got sick of the color by the time she was done. She rarely wanted to ever use the color again. Of course, much of the planet was blue as well, but she just couldn't bring herself to sicken of blue.

Her comment surprised him into laughter. He squeezed her hand and chuckled in amusement. "Ah, Miss Notebook, would you prefer another?"

She stopped then, turning to him, tilting her head with a coy look in her eyes. "I prefer blue."

For a moment, the meaning of her words was almost lost on him. Then his eyes widened and he understood. He had simply held her hand before, but now he twined his fingers with hers. "A moment ago, I would have said blue, I must confide," he admitted to her, smiling that charming smile of his he wore so well. He released her hand, only to brush some hair away from the side of her face, looking over the colors of her hair. "… but now, suddenly I can't decide."

That lavender flush returned to her cheeks, along with a very pleased smile. "Mister Clock, is there something you're trying to tell me?" Hopefully it was similar to what she wanted to tell him.

It was as if she was painting directly into his mine. Words and images were coming together, ideas being pieced together. It was almost there. "That depends, Miss Notepad, is there something you'd like to hear or see?"

"If you'd help make a dream of mine come true, there is indeed something I'd like to do."

The cogs in his mind clicked into place and as she batted her eyes sweetly at him he cupped her cheeks forward and they had their first kiss. They had waited millennia for this.

It would be very difficult to describe what they felt and tasted on the other. Human terms simply fall short of capturing it. To her, he tasted like order and peace. To him, she tasted like life.

They parted, not for need of breath, but rather to look on each other. Their faces mingled with both shock and joy. Miss Notebook tried to break away first, itching to move again and not to be still for so long. It was Clock that pulled her back when she made a move to hop away. He cleared his throat, searching for words and having some difficulty with that. He rarely felt this uncertain about anything and hoped to remedy that. "I… I think I see what you were trying to tell me now, Miss Notebook."

She was almost breathless with elation. Almost. "I would hope you would eventually, subtlety isn't my best look." She shrugged, taming both her hair and her breath back. "But you would have gotten it, Tony, there was no contest." She paused and looked at him carefully. Her face filled with both caution and hope. She never addressed him by his self-given name.

He almost never addressed himself as Tony around her. He was actually a little flattered that she remembered. He felt he should return the favor, but realized after a moment, doing so was harder than he thought. "Miss Notebook?" Cutesy, but not intimate enough. "Manifest?" Beautiful, but too formal. Clock took a long look at her, almost puzzled. Had he really known her since the beginning of space and time and not known her name? "I'm afraid I don't know your name."

She shook her head, tossing her ringlets. "I don't have a name. I don't want one. I'd get bored with it. It's no shame."

He chuckled. That was so like her. She was a fickle little lady. But he still needed something. She was worthy of something. "If you say so, but would you think it fine, or rather, consent, to me calling you mine?"

Miss Notebook dissolved into a pile of girlish giggles. She couldn't help herself. She adored creativity, especially from a typically rigid man such as him, and his play on words was so clever! She had been pining to be his. If she did indeed dream, moments like these were what she wished to dream of. She sat up on the path eventually, grinning up at him from where she sat. 'I consent to be yours, Mister Clock. I mean it, in my heart, this isn't just talk."

She looked up at him and her face grew serious. But she smiled still. She smiled, but with an air of sobriety and the purest peace she had known in her long, long un-life. "I love you."

"And I love you."

It was fluid. It wasn't a question. It was more natural than anything he had ever done. He sat down beside her and took her hand in his. She might be as psychologically bloodstained as he, but her skin was so pure. He traced his hand up her arm, around her neck – she almost stiffened, but didn't – and rested on her cheek for a moment, one of his favorite places. "I love you," he repeated, even more serious, as he brought both hands to her waist and pulled her forward into another kiss. She brought her arms around him and kissed him in return, deeper. They felt no need to part this time.

They stayed there for quite a while. It might have been minutes, it might have been months. Perhaps they thought they would need the time to adjust to this new feeling, to being touched gently and tenderly with no hint of malice, but it began to feel right from the first moment. She was perched in his lap with her arms around his neck, his face, for the first time with no intent of harm. His arms never left her waist or her legs, and their lips never left the other's either. They had no sense of his time or her creations. They only had sense of the other's embrace.

Maybe it crossed their minds sometime during their kisses (although that was doubtful) how they could have possibly missed this for so long. How they never had discovered their love sooner, how they could love at all, these two creatures born from darkness to create life and destroy it but never to live it.

Both time and creation literally stood still for them. There was a poetic beauty to this stillness of the universe. Not even the universe itself, neither life nor death, could longer divide such a young and an ancient love.

But the cosmos couldn't freeze forever. The cycles of life still must continue.

And that was when he stabbed her through the heart.

He had beaten his record. Three times in a row. The feeling of plunging his staff deep into her chest gave him the same exhilaration and crazy pleasure that it always had, and he still loved it, the resistance of her guts, the churning, the lovely rich color seeping into her dress. It was beautiful. He looked up into her eyes, slightly widened and black and glistening with pain, and he almost felt guilty for it.

His poor darling. He smiled gently down on her, caressing her face, her beautiful face with the flushing cheeks of lavender and the black drops running down from her eyes. She was fading away under him, dissolving, melting, like a doll made of paper left out in the rain. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll find you tomorrow, there's nothing to fear."

She smiled, breathless. Her chest was already caving in, bits of her dress melting away into the darkness. She summoned the last of her strength to weakly put a hand over his.

And used the other to impale the side of his head.

The grip on her pencil faltered and fell away from her writing implement, now lodged just above his ear. Clock fell forward a bit, onto a hand, stunned. His face began to crack. When he died, his skin rusted and cracked and eroded, everything stiffened and crumbled to dust. If one listened quietly enough, they could just hear the nuts and bolts and cogs within his body slow and stop and creak and rust and fall apart. His blood dripped down and mixed with the black pulp on her face and Notebook laughed weakly.

"We'll meet again soon, my love, my dear."

And in spite of his impending death, Clock joined in her weak laughter until her face melted and his jaw began to decay away. They were left like that, a pile of dust and a puddle of pulp, being absorbed back into the depths of the cosmos. They would drift away into nothingness and be reborn, somewhere else in time and space, and they would find each other again. Maybe this time they would walk together even longer, immortal and in love, until they just had to kill each other again and repeat the cycle of life.

Living and dying again.

Melting and rusting.

Like paper and clocks.


End file.
